


New Beginnings

by distantstarlight



Series: Beyond the Known Universe [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Developing Relationship, Eating Disorders, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Goodbye 2020 - you sucked, Happy Ending, Holidays, I just wanted a happy ending with no complications, Implied/Referenced Drug Addiction, M/M, Past Abuse, Past Relationship(s), a nod to CP, do not copy to another site, happy ending guarantee, happy new year, no pandemic - I just could not deal with that mess, possibly ooc but I don't care anymore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-31
Updated: 2020-12-31
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:20:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28457451
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/distantstarlight/pseuds/distantstarlight
Summary: John Watson hated himself for ruining his relationship with his ex-best friend, Sherlock Holmes. He's made a new life for himself, one that unexpectedly has brought him a life-change he never expected to have.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes & John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Series: Beyond the Known Universe [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2084373
Comments: 10
Kudos: 85





	New Beginnings

**Author's Note:**

> This whole garbage-fire of a year has had me slammed. My life is not my own. My few moments of peace and quiet are too rare and infrequent to allow me to write. I struggled for months to get this much accomplished, and in the end, I knocked it off just so I could have at least one item in my 2020 file that wasn't dripping in stress and anxiety as we head into an entire new set of possibilities. Thank you for taking time out of your lives to read this.
> 
> \- d

He wore his hair much shorter now, that’s what had thrown John at first, but on second glance, John knew who he was currently making direct eye contact with. It had been five years but there was no mistaking those eyes for anyone else’s, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock Holmes stood stiffly in front of John Watson for the first time in years. The consulting detective tried to hide the fact that he had been thrown by the accidental meet, but John knew him too well to miss the lightning-quick flicker of shock, hurt, loneliness, want, and then finally, deliberate blankness, “John.”

John couldn’t stop looking at him, taking in all the differences and changes, knowing that Sherlock was doing the same. It was as if they’d reversed their characteristics during their years apart. John’s hair was slightly longer now, but Sherlock’s was neatly cut close to his scalp, his lovely curls completely gone. John was much thinner than he used to be, but Sherlock had developed hard lean musculature, and seemed to glow with health whereas John felt exhausted and worn out all the time. John was washed out and pale, but Sherlock was tanned and fit. John was wearing a well-fitted and stylish suit that was tailored to hide his ill-health, but Sherlock was clad in casual trousers and wore a fine wool aubergine jumper under a brown corduroy jacket which made him look vibrant and full of vitality.

There could only be one reason for his presence, “So, lecturing or attending?” They were standing in a hotel the was currently hosting an event centred around advances in forensic investigation. Sherlock was still an in-demand commodity, or so John had read in the papers. In the last few years, the consultant also became known for his appearances at similar events, instructing new generations of detectives on the _science of deduction_. John wasn’t keeping track of Sherlock’s career _but_ , if he happened to be featured in an article in the paper that John had already purchased, there was no point in not reading it just because they were no longer friends.

“Lecture. You?” Sherlock could have walked away and dismissed John, but he hadn’t. Hope flared.

“Same.” John was there to do a presentation as well, though he doubted he’d draw even half the crowd that Sherlock would. His discussion about effective report writing and field notes while on cases wasn’t going to be anywhere near as exciting as learning how to tease out solid information from the smallest of clues during an investigation. He looked at his unopened itinerary and checked. They were both slated to present on the same day, John in the morning, and Sherlock in the afternoon, both in the same large theatre. “I didn’t expect to see...”

“Yes, well, good luck with your lecture. Good day.” Sherlock turned on his heel and strode away rapidly. John stood there and watched mutely as his once-best-friend disappeared around the corner. Dejected, all ebullience and anticipation he’d felt only ten minutes ago gone, John checked himself into his room. There was a group dinner at seven, so he unpacked, showered, and changed into an evening suit. As he stepped into the hallway, he nearly returned to his room because Sherlock was exiting the door right across the hall from him. “Ah...John,” he looked uncomfortably surprised and shuffled his feet nervously.

John didn’t know how to react, frozen like a deer in the headlights of an unexpected vehicle. Sherlock had walked away from him once today already and clearly wanted nothing to do with him, but now they’d have to spend the next three days in closer proximity than he would ever have anticipated, even if was an entire hallway and separate rooms. He smiled awkwardly to hide his discomfort and uncertainty, “What are the odds, right?” John knew his lame joke fell flat.

Sherlock stood there, his face impassive and unreadable, “I expect we have an old fan working the bookings desk. Obviously not enough of one to know how much has changed in the last several years.”

John felt his stomach twist once again, his gaze falling to his shoes. He’d spent that last half-decade hating himself because of what had caused their rift. It was all his fault, and because of his own actions, Sherlock had eventually ended all contact with the ex-soldier, “I’m sorry, Sherlock.”

“You have said, Doctor Watson, many times.” Sherlock stood tall, his demeanour cold and detached. John knew it was a façade. Sherlock had been ripped to pieces emotionally over the events of that painful time, and it was entirely on John’s head that the detective had suffered so, “Good day.”

“Mr Holmes,” John understood that he no longer had the right to refer to Sherlock with familiarity, “I would very much like to speak with you if you have time to spare.”

“I do not.” Tersely, Sherlock nodded once, then quickly walked away. John stood where he was for a minute until Sherlock was safely on the lift and heading down to the banquet room on his own. It took a few more minutes before another lift was available, and by the time John got to his table, the room was nearly full. Sherlock was seated two tables away with a group of young men and women who were all sitting in silent awe of the legend in their presence. John introduced himself to the collection of officers and lawyers who were at his table and tried to pay attention to the speakers.

Dinner was served, an army of waitstaff flowing around the tables in grand synchronicity. John spent a good deal of time chatting with his new acquaintances, and pretended to sip at his soup, and pushed his food around his plate, eating only a few mouthfuls before he had to stop. His stomach was roiling with upset, and he knew he had to calm himself down. He’d taken all his medication earlier, but it was doing nothing for him. Sherlock’s proximity was unnerving him, and all the emotions he’d tried unsuccessfully to deal with through therapy began to swirl and storm around inside him.

When dessert was brought by, John tried not to heave at the sight of the rich creams and sugar-soaked fruits. It made him want to gag because he was so very hungry, but he just couldn’t eat. His therapist and doctors both had told him his trouble was all in his head, but that didn’t make the problem go away. John just couldn’t eat. _He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. The John Watsons of the world didn’t deserve food or forgiveness_. Miserable, John smiled genially, and laughed at polite jokes, and played his role of happily dining guest. John was only pretending to eat, not that anyone was paying attention, all too busy chatting or tentatively flirting with one another. When the doctor eventually got up to leave, he caught Sherlock frowning in his direction. Embarrassed, John turned away and departed as quickly as he could.

The first full day of the conference was a whirlwind. The sessions were short but plentiful, and he’d booked the entire day. By the time evening rolled around, he’d been to seven presentations, sat in during a luncheon lecture while holding a veggie wrap that he never put to his mouth, participated in two breaks where he sipped tea and crumbled muffins into pieces without consuming even one, and now, at the second formal dinner with his assigned group, John was trying to choke down a mouthful of salad. He managed half a plate of it, but nothing else. When he got up to leave, Sherlock was frowning at him once again. Sick with guilt and regret, John fled.

A handful of tablets let him sleep until his morning alarm went off. John sat alone in his room and managed to eat an entire bowl of plain hot oatmeal. His stomach wasn’t so bad in the mornings, and the cereal would last him until breakfast the next morning if he needed it to. Carefully, he drank two large glasses of water. Staying hydrated was at least something he could do and would keep him from having dizzy spells during the day.

John seemed to see Sherlock everywhere that day. He was always on the edge of John’s peripheral vision or walking past in one direction or another. He didn’t seem to spend time with any particular person, the detective just drifted around, exchanging a few words here or there, but otherwise not involving himself in any of the many intense conversations that had blossomed. They were even signed up for many of the same lectures, though John often didn’t know it until the end because Sherlock always sat behind him somewhere.

The dinner that night was also the precursor to a social mixer. After their meal, everyone was invited to repair to the ballroom where people at first just milled around until drinks were served and lively music began to be played by a group of energetic young adults. Soon, people had paired up and were enthusiastically enjoying themselves. John stood near the back, and politely refused all requests to participate, “Bad leg, I’m afraid. This is as danceable as I get.” Sherlock on the other hand had a very full dance card and spent nearly the entire night on the floor with a new partner for every song, men and women alike. John watched, riveted as his old friend twisted, gyrated, and even hopped a bit. Sherlock never seemed to grow tired, and while he wasn’t openly enjoying himself, he obviously wasn’t hating it either. When he was finally escorted off the floor by a tall, smiling, dashedly handsome man, John fled once again, unable to watch Sherlock be seduced.

John took another round of tablets and allowed himself to be taken away chemically, sleeping in his tuxedo and shoes, simply unwilling to be awake when the world wasn’t where he wanted to be any longer. He needed his rest, at any rate. His presentation was in the morning, and he needed to be ready for it.

After another solitary breakfast, John went to the assigned room to prepare his notes and the old-fashioned slideshow he’d brought with him. It was a little gimmicky for this day and age, but he’d found that the older technology was good bait for the attention of his audience. He felt queasy when he saw Sherlock take a seat near the back and felt even more ill when the same handsome man sat next to him. He was so busy trying to ignore Sherlock that he failed to notice that his presentation was completely full and that people were still crowding into the doorway as well as against the back wall. Professionally, he launched into his well-practised speeches, and mechanically smiled for every round of laughter and applause he earned with every scripted joke. When it was over, he got a standing ovation, but when everyone sat down again, he saw that Sherlock was gone, though his handsome suitor remained, a dissatisfied expression on his face.

Maybe it was small of him, but small detail cheered John enough that he was able to eat a larger portion of his lunch. He managed most of the salad and a small bite of the fish. He even choked down two spoonsful of the cakey pudding served at the end. When he got up to leave, he noticed Sherlock looking at him from his table once more, the frown gone, but replaced with a thoughtful expression. It unnerved John all over again and he left as quickly as he could manage politely.

He knew he was just torturing himself, but John went to watch Sherlock’s presentation, abandoning the session he’d originally signed up for. It was fascinating. Sherlock was an excellent speaker, his voice imbuing each word with nuance and weight. John wasn’t the only one swept away, fully one-third of the audience was gazing at Sherlock raptly. John noted that _Mr Handsome_ was right up front, but Sherlock barely glanced at him. John, however, received several piercingly direct looks from the podium, so many that a few of the attendees craned their necks to see exactly who it was that had his attention, and more than once, John heard his own name being mentioned in the crowd. When Sherlock was done, he received thunderous applause and was quickly surrounded by eager fans who pressed him for autographs and conversation. _Mr Handsome_ stood next to Sherlock as if that were his natural place, and John left quietly, knowing he had no right to remain.

The rest of the afternoon passed in a blur. John didn’t recall anything he’d heard, hadn’t written a single note, and couldn’t even remember the names of the guest lecturers. There was a final dinner planned, and one more night in the hotel. John wasn’t sure he could endure it and began to mentally calculate the effort involved in leaving early. He’d need to rebook his train tickets, and he’d have to pay the room fee whether he stayed in it or not, it was far too late to cancel. It was also very late. He’d end up spending most of his time at the station waiting to leave. It just made no sense, but at the same time, being so close to someone who had once meant everything to him was hard to deal with.

Dinner was excruciating. John knew Sherlock was behind him on the left, and he swore he could feel Sherlock staring at him during the entire meal. John pushed his food around as convincingly as he could, and ate three bites, but when the man on his right _Kevin? Taylor? Louis?_ began to unsubtly flirt with him, John knew he was done. Putting his napkin down, John tried to come up with a plausible excuse to leave when a deep and familiar voice spoke, “Doctor Watson.”

Shocked, John looked up from his seat. Sherlock was standing beside him, staring coldly at the man on John’s right, “Mr Holmes? How can I help you?”

“Doctor Watson, if I might have a word with you?” Sherlock looked dark and forbidding, not exactly glaring at _Kevin?Taylor?Louis?_ but definitely not projecting any warmth his way.

“Certainly, Mr Holmes, I am at your disposal.” John internally winced at his own words. _Were they in a Victorian novel all of a sudden?_ Pressing his lips together to silence himself, John followed Sherlock out of the ballroom and into the empty foyer, “Yes?”

Sherlock was frowning again, “You have developed an eating disorder. By my calculations, you’ve ingested barely 800 calories in the last three days. Why are you starving yourself?”

John blinked, momentarily stunned. Shock gave way to anger, “I have not! I’ve been ill, that’s all, I have a bad stomach, nothing my medication can’t fix. I’ve got my scripts with me.”

“Liar. You are indeed taking medication but it’s not helping. You are 20% lighter than you ought to be. Your skin, hair, fingernails, and muscle-tone tell me that you haven’t lost this weight recently, it’s been ongoing for well over a year, possibly two. You’ve been incrementally denying yourself. You have insomnia as well but utilize chemical sleep aids to overcome it. John, what is going on?” For a moment, Sherlock’s mask slipped at he looked older, more tired, unhappy, and worried.

“It’s nothing to concern yourself over,” John tried to stand taller, feeling far too exposed. He wasn’t going to admit that Sherlock was right. He wasn’t going to say out loud what he’d been refusing to admit this entire time. John _was_ starving himself slowly, eating less each day that passed. His self-loathing was overwhelming his self-preservation. _John Watson did not deserve to live, not after what he’d done_.

A muscle in Sherlock’s jaw worked as he pressed his own lips into a flat line. He seemed to be struggling to stop himself but speaking, but lost, “You are suffering from depression. Knowing you, you have refused to follow the advice of your therapist, and likely your doctors as well. You have accepted medication, but not the ones that would properly address your problems. Instead, you mask the symptoms and ignore the issue. Why?”

John’s fingers were trembling. His right knee felt shaky and close to giving out. He felt hot and cold. Sweat gathered at the nape of his neck, and he felt his cheeks heat. “It’s none of your business, Sherlock. Remember? We walk separate paths now.” If John hadn’t been looking right at him, he never would have seen the gutted look. Sherlock recovered but John was already shaken. “You were the one who decided we should never speak again, and I accepted that. Good day, Mr Holmes.”

John tried to leave but found his arm being gripped by a large firm hand, “Doctor Watson... _John_.” Sherlock’s voice had grown softer, warmer, as he spoke his name, “John, you were right earlier. We _do_ need to talk. This isn’t a good place to do so. Would you...John? Please, would you just come with me someplace a little more private?”

John realized now that some eager people were gathered near the entrance to the banquet hall and were attempting to overhear what they were saying. Flushing with embarrassment, John nodded quickly and allowed himself to be guided away. Sherlock took him to one of the small pubs that the hotel boasted and found them a small booth far in the back. Ordering quickly, he set down two mugs of ale, neither of which were touched by either man. Sherlock seemed to be gathering his thoughts and John’s nerve was breaking, “What do you want, Sherlock?”

Sherlock’s mask shattered and suddenly, the man in front of him looked years younger, devastated, and full of pain, “You. I want you back.” John gaped at Sherlock, stunned further as Sherlock tried to discretely wipe a tear away, “I _know_ what I said. I also know that you were in a bad place and that I’d help put you there. I know that what you did was because of how hard and cruelly you’d been pushed. I can’t undo what happened between us but...John...” Sherlock reached a shaking hand across the table, “John, living without you has been bleak and pointless. Coming across you this weekend...it feels like a chance I can’t pass up.”

John’s mouth opened but nothing came out. _Was this a joke? A prank? A fantasy brought to life. How many times had he wished and dreamed that this might happen? Now that it was, though, he was having a hard time believing it_. “Are you having me on? You told me I was the most toxic person you’d ever met. You called me a faithless slut, and an unevolved animal. You...you...you said...you said being my friend was the biggest waste of time you’d ever endured, that being with me was mundane, illogical, and pointless.”

Sherlock wasn’t the only one with tears on his face. “John,” began Sherlock. Hope began to bloom once again, and it was exhilarating.

Just then, the handsome man from the night before materialised, “Hi there, I’ve been looking for you all over.” John was shocked and horrified when the man leaned in and kissed Sherlock on the mouth. The sudden drop from anticipation to jealous disappointment was sickening, and John couldn’t be there. _It had been a prank after all. Sherlock had someone. He’d been toying with John, and John deserved it. He deserved to be strung along and then have the rug pulled out from beneath him._

As quickly as he could ungracefully flounder out of it, John left the booth, ignoring the way Sherlock anxiously called his name. John checked himself out of his room the moment he finished packing and spent the rest of the sleepless night sitting on a bench at the train station waiting for morning. He had wanted to get out of the hotel before he had to witness Sherlock bringing his lover to his bed, the bed that was so close and yet so far from John’s.

Three weeks later, John was back in London. It was the holidays now, and all the joyful cheeriness made him feel ill and disconnected from the city he’d once loved to live in. Now, he preferred being constantly on the move. He’d toured through several countries in the EU, delivering his presentation to various crowds of police and detectives. He never stayed anywhere for longer than a night, never accepted offers to go for dinner or to meet privately, or anything even remotely social. Instead, John kept his contacts with others strictly professional, only perusing his email on his tablet when he had a free moment, and never checking his mobile. No one called him these days, anyway, nor did he want them to. John spent his free time alone, and during those times, John lost himself in memories of when he became the worst person in the world.

Grief had caused him to cling to the first person who came onto him all those years ago when Sherlock Holmes had appeared to commit suicide in front of John. Sherlock had been his best friend, his flatmate, his partner, and John hadn’t seen it coming. In the months that followed, John was targeted by thousands of strangers online, bombarded with accusations and far too personal queries. By the time his now late wife, the mysterious Mary Morstan, had shown up, John was a wreck and it had been far too easy for her to gather up those ragged shards and put John back together in a semi-functional way.

He’d been furious when Sherlock ‘came back to life’, interrupting his attempt at proposing to Mary. She’d worn his ring anyway, despite the fact that instead of asking her to be his wife, John spent the night punching Sherlock right in the subtext. He’d stayed angry for weeks, going through with the wedding, and taking malicious delight in tormenting his newly returned friend. It wasn’t until much later that John felt shame for his horrible behaviour, but it only got worse. Mary’s sly digs and gaslighting kept John off balance. She seemed to genuinely like the scientist, but then, Mary had shot Sherlock. Sherlock died right in front of John three separate times, and it wasn’t until the detective was finally in surgery that another doctor managed to restart his heart and stem the fatal bleed-out.

John tortured himself with what followed. While Sherlock recovered, John cared for him but without kindness, especially after the truth about Mary had been made painfully clear. John was professional but distant, ensuring that Sherlock received the best of care for his body, but giving nothing at all when it came to the detective’s emotions. He was too twisted up inside about his wife, how she had hidden everything true about herself but still expected John to love her as he had once done. He did love Mary Morstan, but the woman who looked like her was a very pregnant imposter.

Mary delivered their child and almost immediately ran away. John chased after her with Sherlock, abandoning his new-born with Molly Hooper who knew nothing about children but who also was incapable of saying no to either of them. Things got messier and messier. Villains seemed to grow on trees and all of them had a vendetta against Sherlock, throwing John into the mix just because they could. The worst of it was Sherlock, his descent back into drugs, the sexual abuse he suffered at the hands of Magnusson, the way he nearly died via Culverton, the way John himself beat Sherlock nearly unconscious. Sherlock had almost lost an eye, and John had certainly lost the respect of everyone they knew. He had been out of control.

Once Mary was dead for certain, John did his best to be a single parent to Rosie. She got sick when she was two, and when she was at the hospital, John tried to donate blood for her and that’s when he learned that Rosie wasn’t his baby at all. Stunned, he’d gazed upon the tot with new eyes, and for the first time, saw Mary’s ex-boyfriend David in her features. Lestrade grudgingly helped John locate the equally stunned man, and suddenly, John wasn’t a father anymore. He grieved but Sherlock was there for him, tender, caring, and supportive.

Sherlock had convinced John to move back to 221 B Baker Street and for a few brief weeks, things between them blossomed and grew. When they became lovers, John sold the house he’d live in with Mary and Rosie. For the first time in his life, he was financially stable but he began to drink his savings away. He began to gamble, squandering his paycheques. He stopped paying his bills and didn’t thank Sherlock who paid them for him.

He fell further still. John started sleeping around with anyone he could find whenever Sherlock was away, and the night that he brought a strange man back to the flat, Sherlock had been unexpectedly home and had angrily thrown them both into the street. _Faithless slut_. John was mad about that since the stranger wasn’t interested in bringing John home, and left him on Baker Street, drunk, horny, and full of rage. The guilt didn’t manifest until much later.

He deteriorated rapidly after Sherlock ended their nascent relationship. John refused to work on cases, devoting himself to the new clinic he worked at instead. He was rude and abrasive toward Sherlock, baiting his ex-lover with stories of his ongoing dalliances, but it wasn’t until he became flippant and mean with Mrs Hudson that Sherlock finally snapped, “You have reason enough to despise me, John Watson. You found it within yourself to cheat on me, to take me for granted, but Mrs Hudson is blameless. She has done everything she can think of to try and make you feel happy, and you have thrown her gifts back in her face like a cretin. You are not the John Watson I once knew. You are nothing but a brute, an unevolved animal. You live only to spread your toxin to anyone close to you and spare no effort to ensure that any sign of happiness in anyone else is obliterated. I have tried, John, I have tried so hard with you. I can’t try any more. I am done. _We_ are done. Leave my home, Watson, your welcome here has ended.”

Furious at being compelled to leave Baker Street, John acted out with childish spite the moment Sherlock left him alone to pack himself up. He broke Sherlock’s violin bow. He burned Sherlock’s skull, or tried to, Mrs Hudson rescued it before it was more than barely scorched. John destroyed all of Sherlock’s ongoing experiments, not caring that five separate cases would now go unsolved because he’d ruined the scant evidence available. In the end, Mrs Hudson resorted to turning to Mycroft Holmes in a panic. Mycroft sent a dozen very large men to pick up John and physically remove him spitting and screaming from 221 B Baker Street, depositing him and his few boxes at a shelter for veterans.

The complete displacement was enough to shock John into really thinking about how he’d behaved. Sherlock blocked his number, as did Lestrade, Mrs Hudson, Molly, and nearly everyone he knew at New Scotland Yard, even Sally Donovan and Philip Anderson. The shelter arranged therapy for John and found him a tiny flat to live in. He was sent to see a specialist to help with his anger issues, and with them, began his journey to wellness, but the battle against his self-hate seemed doomed from the start.

John worked on rediscovering the parts of himself that he’d allowed to atrophy and tried to learn healthier coping mechanisms for his pent-up anxieties and issues. It wasn’t easy, especially since he was so alone, but that was his own fault and no one else’s. John accepted that he was loathsome and unworthy. All he could do was struggle to learn how not to accidentally hurt people around him and how to contain his blacker urges. Now, five years later, John was attempting to get over an unexpected tangle of feelings he couldn’t deal with, his entire new world shaken by his encounter with Sherlock at the conference, and how things had ended this time around.

He was in _Ocado_ getting milk for his evening tea when Sherlock came across him again. Just as with the conference, Sherlock seemed stunned that John was right in front of him. This time, however, before John could walk off and leave him undisturbed, Sherlock grabbed his hand and wouldn’t let go, blurting, “I barely knew that man! He’d flirted with me at the conference and walked me back to my room but that is all. He presumed a great deal by kissing me in front of you. He knew who you were, that’s why he did it. John...I was serious. Please, John, just...let me make a case for myself before you decide anything.”

John looked up, “No. You _don’t_ have to make a case for yourself, Sherlock. If anyone needs to explain themselves or convince anyone of anything, it’s me. You don’t want me in your life, you shouldn’t want me. I’m a bad person. Anything good or noteworthy about me isn’t nearly enough to balance the scales, especially with you. I can’t be with you, Sherlock, I’m not good for you, or for anyone. It’s better this way. Just...go live a good life, Sherlock Holmes. You deserve only the best and that’s definitely not me. We both know what kind of man I am, and I certainly am not worth your time.”

John left Sherlock in the dairy aisle and paid for his carton of milk before going to his lonely flat. He’d never bothered to upgrade into a bigger flat. All he needed was someplace to store his extra clothes and the rest of his books. He was on the road most of the time now, having rebuilt his shattered reputation one paper at a time until he was able to stand on his own credentials once more. He deserved his miserable circumstances. People like him were not entitled to better.

Once he was home, John tried to brew a cup of tea but ended up sobbing over the sink, self-hatred filling him once more as he recalled the coppery tang of blood on the air as he beat Sherlock with his bare fists. He wished for whiskey but knew he couldn’t start drinking again. He’d nearly done himself in the last time he’d binged and binge he would if even a drop passed his lips. He couldn’t forget how Sherlock had pissed blood for a week because of how hard John had kicked his kidneys, of the mess of scars on Sherlock’s once pristine body that he’d gotten while he disappeared for two years to save John’s pathetic life. Even that horrific image could not top the pain of betrayal that Sherlock’s face expressed when he’d caught John with that man.

John knew he was a disgusting monster, unworthy of decent company, and too blackened by the tar of his own poor personal choices to ever be able to become clean again. Sherlock was proof that staying away was the best possible choice. The world’s only consulting detective was healthy, fit, socially engaged, and in all ways possible, in a far better place than when he’d associated with the black hole of unpleasantness that was John Hamish Watson, widower, ex-military, ex-doctor, ex-everything. He was a mask in motion, a cypher with name recognition and nothing else.

A rap at his door made him jump with the unexpectedness of the otherwise common-place sound. His rent was paid on time, and the landlord was the only one who ever came knocking, mostly to advise John that some service or other was being temporarily suspended, or if the building was going to be visited by health or building inspectors. John wasn’t certain what might be next on the maintenance schedule that would discommode him in any fashion, but confused or not, he opened his door.

And stared.

“May I enter?” John blinked up at the last person in the world he’d ever expected to see again. “John?”

Automatically, John stepped back and allowed his unanticipated guest entry. Swallowing the lump in his throat, John managed a slightly croaky greeting, “Sherlock.”

Sherlock didn’t sweep in the way he might of in the past. Instead, the consulting detective entered the room almost meekly, glancing around quickly, but saying nothing about the less than warm surroundings. Standing beside John’s sagging sofa, Sherlock cleared his throat and nervously looked down at his fingers, “John, I...”

“Sherlock?” John’s brain seemed to be frozen. He couldn’t think of how to say even the simplest of words, his lips flapping open cluelessly, shocked by Sherlock’s presence and the fact that the man in front of him seemed to be struggling just as hard to form words. He wasn’t emotionally prepared to host a guest. He must look a sight, too, blotchy from blubbering. He hoped that his nose was clean, at least. “Tea?”

Sherlock looked grateful, “Yes, if it’s no trouble, John.”

Agog with the politeness he was experiencing, John motioned Sherlock to follow him to his spartan kitchen area. Plugging in a small kettle, John searched for and eventually found a second mug. He had enough inexpensive bagged tea to brew two cups, so he did so, fully aware that he was stalling, and that Sherlock was staring. “Is there something I can help you with, Mr Holmes?”

Sherlock flushed a brilliant pink and seemed to be unable to look up from his steaming mug. Taking a sip and clearing his throat once again, an obviously nervous Sherlock Holmes sat straighter on the kitchen chair he was currently occupying, and visibly steeled himself, clearing his throat unnecessarily, “Dr Watson, would you be interested in joining me for dinner?” John blinked. _Dinner? Why? Was there a case, or a study, or...or...something? It couldn’t be what it sounded like._ “As in a romantic dinner...a date, as it were.” Sherlock was very clearly unnerved yet determined, bright apples of red brightening his cheeks.

John felt his jaw swing open a bit and hurriedly closed his mouth. Sherlock was plainly asking him on a date and blushing while he did it. He’d never seen the normally self-possessed man look more uncertain. “You want to go out on a date...with me?” _Why?_ “Why?”

Sherlock turned even more brilliantly pink and seemed to be literally squirming in his seat with discomfort. Drawing a deep but shaky breath, Sherlock finally managed to meet John’s gaze, “John, I want a beginning.”

“A beginning?”

“Yes. We ended very unfortunately but that ending wasn’t a complete one...I have found that I have...” Sherlock seemed to get lost for a moment. Swallowing nervously once again, he looked over to John, his emotions bared and exposed on his face, “John, I have missed you endlessly these last few years. Nothing I have done, overcome, or achieved has made any sort of difference to how I feel about you. I am hoping, praying, even, though I’m not a godly sort of person, but that’s a completely different...what I mean to say... _oh for fu..._ John, I still love you, alright? I want to be with you, and I want to take you out to dinner so that we can have a new start and leave everything bad behind us.”

 _This wasn’t good. This was dreadful. This was awful. Sherlock deserved better. Sherlock deserved more. Sherlock deserved someone who wasn’t...John._ “No.”

“No?” Sherlock seemed startled but then his gaze grew keen and stern, “Why?”

“You _know_ why!” _How could Sherlock pretend not to know? How could he not recall what John had done, what he had said?_

The fresh disbelief on Sherlock’s face dissolved into anger, “I see. Your internalised homophobia is still in charge.”

 _What?_ “What? No! Why would you...that’s not what I meant at all!”

“Then what did you mean, John Watson?” Sherlock was getting up, “You spent years telling everyone that you were not gay, what am I supposed to understand about your refusal?”

John was aghast and at the same time unsurprised at how badly this was going. _He was a monster, after all. Hurting Sherlock’s feelings was what he was good at._ “I’m saying no because of what I did to you, not because you are a man, Sherlock. Give me at least that!” John felt horrid that Sherlock had even gone there, mentally. He deserved it though because he had said those words, dozens of times, “Sherlock...I’m poison to you. I’m just...look at us right now! I keep fucking up and you keep getting hurt because of it. Just...leave me behind, Sherlock. Go, live a better life.”

Sherlock still looked angry, but instead of leaving, he came around the table, grasped John’s face in his hands, leaned down, and kissed John hard on the mouth. It was invasive, full of passion, fury, and infused with something that made John’s hands shake, _love_. John absolutely melted, incapable of sustaining a single objection to the pseudo-assault. Sherlock moved closer, straddling John’s unresisting lap to sit upon it, winding one long arm around John’s shoulder as he continued to cradle John’s face with the remaining hand. By the time the kiss ended, long minutes later, John understood that protests were pointless. “I love you, John, and you love me back, I know it. I need you in my life. Come out for dinner with me. Spend time with me...just...let’s start all over again, please?”

John knew he was beaten. He’d never had much willpower when Sherlock was concerned, and now, it seemed that he had none now that he knew how the man still felt about him. “I don’t want to hurt you again,” he stated unhappily, “You know I will. I’m doing it already.”

“I’ll hurt you too, and make you angry, and probably a thousand other negative things. It doesn’t matter, John. We can begin with a clean slate, just...a brand-new beginning, and nothing from our toxic horrible past. I need this. I need _you_. This feeling I have, it’s never gone away, never become less, it just remains. My heart isn’t mine, John, and it never will be again. We have to accept that and just move forward, so please, for both our sakes, will you come to dinner with me?”

John nodded. _What else could he do? Deny Sherlock and hurt him once again? Never, but still_ , “I think you’re making a terrible mistake, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked down at him, his eyes dark and glistening, “I’m not saying I forgive what you did to me, because it was unforgivable, in my opinion, but at the same time, I would rather not live the rest of my life in desolate isolation the way I have been. We can be happy together, I know it. I believe it. Believe it with me, John. Perhaps I am making a disastrous mistake, but it’s what I am choosing.”

John felt his heart ripping open with agony. Those words hurt in a way he wasn’t prepared to deal with. John knew that in the past he’d chosen so many other things over Sherlock, and in so many unnecessary ways. _How could Sherlock love him? John wasn’t someone that anyone should love. He was a cancer_. Still, if Sherlock was making this choice, who was John to keep denying it? He was hurting Sherlock either way. _Maybe a few dates would be enough to let Sherlock work his way through the death throes of their ill-fated love, and maybe once he’d gotten it out of his system, he’d leave John for someone better._ It was the only tolerable scenario. John nodded, “Okay, we can go on a date.”

Sherlock’s smile was brilliant. He looked happy, and now his cheeks were pink with pleasure, “Is today too soon?”

All of John’s hours were free when he wasn’t off working. “Fine. When?”

“Now?” Sherlock looked hopeful.

John wasn’t sure he could bear an evening looking at Sherlock smiling face. He didn’t deserve Sherlock’s smiles. He didn’t deserve the happiness he could see radiating off the tall man in front of him. He really didn’t deserve the warm squeeze of his fingers that Sherlock gave him, but he had no right denying Sherlock anything, “Sure.”

Sherlock stood still for only a moment before he realized that he was just standing there grinning. Jerking into motion, Sherlock grabbed John’s jacket off the hook and presented it to him, “Shall we?”

John felt misgivings bubbling up. How could he get out of this? Sherlock looked...bubbly. It made John feel sick inside because he knew he was the source of Sherlock’s happiness, and it was stressful. It was just a matter of time before he did something or said something that would wipe that pleased expression off Sherlock’s face.

They walked along the streets in silence for two blocks before John felt Sherlock fumbling by his side. _Sherlock was trying to hold hands!_ Swallowing hard, John let him, allowing their fingers to tangle together. Risking everything, John glanced up for a second before staring down at the pavement in front of him. Sherlock looked serene and content. John felt like vomiting. _He had no business allowing Sherlock to think well of him, to feel good because of him. Sherlock shouldn’t be settling for someone as unsavoury as John. He shouldn’t be strolling down the street hand in hand with John and looking pleased about it_. “Where are we off to?”

“It’s a little place I know. The owners owe me a favour.” Against his will, John’s mouth quirked into a fond smile for a moment. _Some things never changed._ Sherlock seemed to be in good spirits, his eyes bright and his face filled with subdued pleasure. His mouth lost its smile eventually, and his fingers squeezed John’s a tiny bit harder, “I know you are reluctant, John. I _know_ you have misgivings. I know you are worried about what might happen. All I am asking is that we try, _actually_ try. Would you do that, please? Try as earnestly as you can, not just lip service to a promise, but honestly try?”

John felt his lips tremble because all of this was so much, so fast. He didn’t want to agree but once more, how could he deny Sherlock anything? John knew he was devoted to the man, that he did indeed love Sherlock still. He felt valueless and filled with problems, a broken empty husk filled with guilt and bile that leaked out constantly. He would never be able to take Sherlock for granted after being given this incredible second chance, but, his misgivings were nothing compared to Sherlock’s right to ask anything of him, even if he couldn’t help voicing them, “I still think it’s a terrible idea.”

“I know you do, my love, but we’ll work on that, alright?” The endearment alone demonstrated how Sherlock was so different now than before. He was assured, confident, and determined to do this. He had spoken his desire clearly using words instead of trying to get John to guess by leaving what he thought were obvious clues. “We’re both different men than we used to be, so let’s begin there. Forget how we were, we’ll never be that again, but instead, focus on who we could be. That’s what I want, John, our new _something better.”_

John felt helpless and concerned, but as they walked briskly down the street, he realized that their footsteps were perfectly in time with each other and that the space between them had grown smaller naturally and easily. He could smell the scent of his friend and it made his brain dizzy with memories that flooded his mind, remembrances of past happiness. He couldn’t lie to himself. He did want this even though he was certain he did not deserve it. “Hurting you again would kill me.”

Sherlock stopped walking, his face serious as he carefully cupped John’s face in his hand, holding him as if the smaller man were made of the most delicate of materials, “Being away from me is killing you, my love. Your body is wasting away because your spirit is broken. I don’t want you to die. I don’t want to be cold and empty inside any more. I want my heart to come back to me where it belongs,” Sherlock bent down just enough to press a single chaste kiss onto John’s mouth, “I am only alive with you, my dear John. Be with me and let us both live again.”

John felt his eyes well up, ashamed of his tears but Sherlock simply wiped them away with his thumbs and kissed the tip of John’s nose, “Are you sure?” John needed to know, he needed Sherlock’s assurance more than he’d ever needed it before. “If we do this, I swear, on everything that matters I swear, Sherlock, I will never be anything but true to you. I’m sorry about before. I’m so...so...sorry.”

Sherlock ignored everyone who was walking past them, wrapping John in his arms to shield the smaller man from view as he fought back his tears, “It won’t be easy, my dearest, for either of us. In the last few years, I have built up so many walls, so many resentments. I...I left London and lost myself in different cities. Drugs, of course. I was killing myself and then one day, I knew I had to change something because everything I had tried to do to forget us failed. I got clean, I started fresh in a more academic way, and rebuilt my life. Mycroft organised a therapist for me, someone I could actually listen to and who listened to me. One session at a time, he dug out every lie I had told myself and made me face the truth of so many self-deceptions. One thing stayed the same throughout that process. I love you, John. No matter what you did or what I’ve said, my love for you has never wavered or faded. I’ve missed you with every beat of my heart, and no matter how you’ve hurt me, and you have hurt me deeply, I have learned that I do not thrive without you. I’ve built this whole new life because I could not return to my old one alone. The work does not matter to me if you aren’t a part of it.”

John had no idea how the universe had managed to spin itself in such a way that he was getting Sherlock back without a fight. It was overwhelming. He wasn’t certain that he was processing everything correctly, that Sherlock wasn’t taking him to dinner as a prelude to the restart of their previously tumultuous lives together. Sherlock took him by the hand once again and gently escorted him down the street.

The walk didn’t seem to take long but they were in a part of London John did not recognise. The restaurant was both ornate and simple, many plain details combined together to welcome them. Intimate booths for two were strategically placed so that everyone had as much privacy as possible while allowing waitstaff to work around them easily. The food was a fusion of west and east, the components both familiar and foreign. John barely noticed it, so lost was he as he was rewarded with Sherlock’s full and complete attention.

Their conversation was easy and comfortable, and John realized that he’d desperately missed connecting with someone so deeply. Everything was wonderful, and time seemed to fly by as he ate one bite after another without issue, his attention completely taken up by the incredible man in front of him. Sherlock had brought with him a wellspring of happiness and it was dizzying to feel good again.

John was distantly surprised to find himself being escorted to the door, Sherlock’s hand low on his back, and guided to the streets. They walked together for hours, rambling around London with no destination in mind, talking about anything and everything. Occasionally, Sherlock would lift John’s hand to his mouth and press a small affectionate kiss to his knuckles before resuming their conversation. John’s chest ached and he couldn’t say if it was pain or pleasure that tormented him so. Eventually, John found himself at his own front door, Sherlock looming over him. “I had a lovely time tonight,” said Sherlock, “It was the best night I’ve had in ages.”

John was beginning to feel overwhelmed again. The last few hours had been a kind of bliss, but he wasn’t certain he could take any more. He still felt conflicted and worried that Sherlock would ask for more than he was prepared to give. He didn’t need to worry. Sherlock did kiss him but on the forehead. John’s eyes closed as he felt the warmth of it, and he shivered. Sherlock wrapped his long arms around John’s shoulders and squeezed him for a moment, “I’ll call tomorrow if that’s okay with you?”

John was speechless but managed a nod. Sherlock smiled down at him, and stepped back, “Tomorrow, then,” John said, his voice thick with feeling. Sherlock nodded once, turned on his heel and left. John stood for several minutes, lost in thought before he let himself into his flat and made himself a cup of tea. John realized that he’d had a full meal and his stomach did not ache. He was drinking tea, and his throat wasn’t closing up. He had walked for hours and his leg had not hurt. He changed into his pyjamas, brushed his teeth, and washed his face. After rinsing out his teacup, John went to bed, closed his eyes, and fell into a deep restful sleep for the first time in five years.

When John awoke, it was to a polite but persistent knock at the door. Blinking awake, John noticed that his mobile alert was flashing for the first time in many months. He had no idea who would need to contact him, but he glanced them over as he struggled into his robe, calling out, “Give me a minute,” at whoever was still knocking.

5:30 am – _May I take you out for breakfast? SH_

6:00 am – You are likely still asleep. Text me when you wake. SH

6:15 am – I had coffee while I waited for you to wake. Going for a walk now. Text me. SH

6:45 am – I’m at the park. We should feed the ducks together someday. SH

7:00 am – There’s an open-air market. Do you like cheese still?” SH

7:04 am – I hope you do because I have just purchased several samples. SH

7:09 am – what are your current feelings about grapes? SH

7:10 am – that was a joke. Currents. Grapes?

7:12 am – Apparently you can find fair-trade coffee and accessories at the market these days. Have you ever had French press coffee? SH

7:15 am – I just picked up a small press and a pound of fresh ground coffee. Text me when you wake. SH

7:16 am – You do still prefer your coffee black? I will find some cream and sugar just in case.

7:35 am – I may have shopped excessively.

7:40 am – John, answer the door.

John blinked at the stream of unexpected messages and stumbled to his front door. When he opened it, he discovered Sherlock, arms laden with shopping bags, and a sheepish expression, “Sherlock?”

“Good morning, John,” Sherlock looked nervous, “I know it’s early...”

John shook his head, simply standing aside and waving Sherlock in, “I just saw your texts. Sorry, I had it on silent while it charged. I’m not used to getting messages during the night, my publicist usually just sends me emails with my itinerary on it.”

Sherlock looked uncomfortable, shifting the bags in his hands and arms awkwardly. John blinked for a moment before shaking his head, “Sorry, sorry, put them here, um, one second.” John quickly cleared space off his tiny counter, ruthlessly piling dishes into the small sink so that Sherlock could unburden himself. John bit his lip to keep from laughing. Sherlock had gotten everything they might ever possibly need for an extravagant breakfast for four. “Hungry, are you?”

Sherlock looked sheepish once again, “I couldn’t decide what to get. It’s been so long, and I can’t say with certainty where your tastes might have changed.” He looked down at the sizeable pile, “I admit, I have been excessive. I wanted to tempt your appetite. I know you have problems with food.”

“I don’t know about that, exactly,” John replied who knew full well that his issue wasn’t with the food per se, “I ate a full meal last night and not a single bite troubled me.”

Sherlock looked pleased, “Well, if you can manage another meal, perhaps we can find something in this ridiculous largess that appeals to you.”

John found himself seated at his tiny table, knees bumping into Sherlock’s as the younger man pretended they were on a food talk show, feeding John samples of each food one after the other. He used funny voices as he narrated their movements and made faces as they judged eat a bite in turn. John hadn’t laughed that hard in years. The coffee was earthy and bracing, and the tiny quail eggs that Sherlock happened upon had been poached to perfection after a brief internet search on how to cook them. They tried cheeses that ranged from piquant to bland, had tastes from tiny jam jars filled with artisan creations, and heated up crunchy rolls of fresh bread in John’s small toaster over. By the time they were down to a selection of fruits, both men were full and drowsy, and three hours had passed by.

“I just woke up and I want to go back to bed again,” John yawned, “At least I’m still in my pyjamas.”

Sherlock was yawning hugely, “I could use a nap.”

“Sorry, I don’t have a sofa to loan you.” John felt true regret at his lack of furnishing. He was enjoying the unexpected morning. “You could always kip with me.”

Sherlock looked as surprised as John felt as the words came out of his mouth without thought. John was equally surprised that he kept that same mouth shut instead of instantly backtracking and allowing Sherlock to leave. He didn’t deserve Sherlock but if the man was determined to be with him, then growing their intimacy was a step in the right direction. “While I would love that, John, are you certain? This is our new beginning, are you sure this isn’t too fast for you?”

“Is it too fast for you?” John explained further, “I don’t know what you want, not really, and I’m afraid of going too fast, or too slow, or in the wrong direction, or in the wrong order. I’ve made such a mess of things in the past. I’m terrified of making the wrong move now. You want to get back with me against my advice, and I love that about you, but you are going to have to take the lead on this, Sherlock. I’m in no place to make decisions like this for you. All I can do is follow along and hope I don’t hurt you too much.”

Sherlock looked serious, “John Watson, I would very much like to lay down with you for a nap. I also would like to clearly state that nothing sexual needs to happen, but if it does, then I am more than amenable. I am clean. After I went through rehab three years ago, I agreed to be regularly tested, a condition my brother insisted upon. I am perfectly healthy.”

John coughed nervously. He really wasn’t ready for sex. He loved Sherlock and their past dalliances had been some of the best in his life, but he simply wasn’t ready for that level of contact. “Sleep is what I am offering.”

“I accept.”

Without ado, Sherlock stripped down to his vest and pants after he made his way to John’s bedroom. The bed was a double but the two of them were still closer to one another than they’d been in a long time, “I haven’t been with anyone since...well, since, I mean...”

Sherlock was silent, “I was. After that night I was so angry. I thought, what the hell, _he_ does it, why shouldn’t I, so I did. A lot. I went to clubs, bars, anywhere I might meet someone for the night. I didn’t really care who they were as long as they wanted to fuck. I didn’t care where, either. Got into a bit of bother with the police on several occasions, enough to worry Mycroft. I stopped after a few months because by then I’d talked myself back into drugs and I didn’t need sex. I left the country and partied my way across the continent. I eventually made my way back to France, and that’s where Mycroft found me. He cleaned me up like he used to, registered me in a discrete facility, and let me dry out without his usual complement of lectures.”

John felt the horrible familiar and well-deserved sense of guilt now sauced with a sickening degree of possessive jealousy as Sherlock spoke, “I’m sorry I did that to you. You did nothing to deserve what I put you through. I have no excuse. There is no way to earn forgiveness.”

Sherlock looked at him sharply, “Do I need to ask for your forgiveness for what I did while we were apart?”

“No, why? No, not at all. You did what you have every right to do, well, maybe not the drugs, but you are your own person Sherlock. If that’s how you coped, then I have no grounds to try and lob morals at you after the fact. I will never be in a place to do that, not after everything I did.” John knew he would never ask Sherlock to be exclusive with him, he didn’t have the right to ask that, not after cheating on the most perfect human being on the planet for no good reason. “Can we spoon?”

John had no idea why he’d asked for such a thing, but Sherlock’s disgruntled expression fell right off his face, replaced with his sweetly crooked smile, “I’d really enjoy that.”

After shifting around and arranging blankets, both men were, for the lack of better descriptions, snuggling together beneath John’s quilt. Sherlock was wrapped around John, his arms and legs keeping him close. To John’s surprise, Sherlock fell asleep first, his soft snore reverberating against the back of his skull. It was familiar and soothing, and before he knew it, John’s eyes closed as his eyelids grew heavy. He faded off without a struggle, warm and loved.

They awoke late in the afternoon. Sherlock chivvied John into the shower and fresh clothes before almost chasing him out of the flat and onto the street. One cab ride later and they were at Baker Street. John frowned when Sherlock knocked on the door instead of using his key and was nearly as surprised as Mrs Hudson when she opened the door, clearly not expecting to see either of them in front of her. “Sherlock! John! I haven’t seen either of you in so long!”

They were scolded into her kitchen, sat down with one cup of tea each and a sharp lecture about ignoring old ladies who loved them, “Are you coming home?”

Sherlock took John’s hand in his, “I am, Mrs Hudson, and if John ever feels ready, I would like him to come home as well.”

Mrs Hudson and Sherlock both looked at John who swallowed hard, “If you could forgive me, Mrs Hudson. I was quite the idiot the last time we spoke. I can never apologise enough. All I can do is to try and be a better person than I was.”

She looked at John, her face filled with compassion, “Live and let live, I always say. Welcome back, John.” She led them upstairs, and into their old rooms. The differences were jarring. All their familiar old furniture was gone, even the worn old carpet. All that remained of their once cluttered front room were the walls, the wooden floor, and the fireplace. Everything else was gone. The kitchen was entirely bare, all the appliances and tables gone, and the cupboards bare even of dust, “I sold off everything of value. My last tenants had their own things. She got pregnant so they moved off to somewhere larger, she’s having twins. It’s been empty for a good while and I had expenses.”

John mourned the loss of the antique cases and sturdy Victorian writing tables. “Not to worry, Mrs Hudson, I’m certain we can sort out something.” She looked so relieved that John felt guilty. His downward spiral had cost all of them, and he hated himself all over again. His stomach began to cramp, and he clenched his fists to calm himself. _He’d hurt Sherlock so many times. He’d been awful to Mrs Hudson. He had been spiteful, rude, and every manner of jackass to everyone and it twisted his guts with shame. Mrs Hudson had been forced to part with pieces that she’d collected over her lifetime, expensive and irreplaceable furnishings that he was solely responsible for._ “The movers can be here in the morning if that suits you, Mrs Hudson.”

“Movers?” John was confused, “What are they moving? I barely have anything.”

“Well, I have quite a bit. Mrs Hudson, although I had moved away, I instructed my estate manager to keep a discrete eye on you. They purchased everything you had to sell, top market value as ordered, and all of it will be arriving first thing in the morning if that is agreeable for you. All of it has been professionally retouched and repaired, including your grandmother’s china cabinet. If you’d please move your knitting supplies from their current location, I will make sure the workmen return it to your flat where it belongs.”

Mrs Hudson wept with shocked happiness and John felt ill. _Yes, Sherlock had rescued Mrs Hudson’s things, but all the unnecessary expense and stress of the sales much have caused grief on both sides, and all because of him. He had no right to be standing in the same room as decent caring people. He was filth compared to them_. He had to go, “I should pack,” was all he said before stumbling out of 221 B Baker Street, almost running in his haste to get away before he vomited his self-loathing all over the freshly waxed floors.

Sherlock found him later at his flat, eyes red from weeping, stomach emptied more than once from nervous nausea. “I’m sorry,” John wept again, “I didn’t mean to run. I’m sorry.”

“John,” Sherlock’s voice was full of compassion and understanding, “This is a very large change in a very small amount of time. It’s a great deal for you to adapt to and absorb. You’re being as brave as you can, and I am so proud of you.” Sherlock hugged John close, “I know you’re terrified, my love. I am too. I’m no better at this than you are, you know it, but I’m convinced that this is the correct move. Come home, John. Leave all of this blackness behind and be with me. Let’s live together again, and take every opportunity to love one another, and let’s be happy.”

“I love you so much, Sherlock, I always have. I can’t trust myself not to hurt you again, but I swear on my life that I will do my best to deserve you, I swear it.” Sherlock’s eyes were kind and full of love as John stared desperately up at him, hoping that Sherlock believed him, “You are my entire universe.”

Sherlock led John to his kitchen chair and made him a cup of tea. While John drank it down, Sherlock set about packing John up. “The movers will come round tomorrow and pick up the books and your bags. We’ll take the overnight with us back to Baker Street. Mrs Hudson has the bed made up for us in our room.”

Our room. John’s face broke into a teary smile, “Upstairs or downstairs?”

“Upstairs, of course, John, don’t be ridiculous. My old room is right above Mrs Hudson’s and while it would provide her endless thrills, I’d rather not have someone vicariously enjoying our private moments.” He gave John a highly exaggerated naughty wink and John laughed. He loved this new Sherlock even more than he loved the Sherlock he’d left behind. This one was funny, passionate, but still entirely certifiable for choosing a piece of human wreckage like him. “Come along, John, let’s go home.”

Moving back to 221 B Baker Street was the most uplifting thing John had ever done in his lifetime. Sherlock explained that he’d finally received his entire inheritance and that was why he was able to spend so much on furnishings, rent, and other expenses. John had some income, and it wasn’t paltry, but Sherlock wouldn’t hear of him laying out any cash for the core expenses for the flat.

John argued a bit at _being kept_ , but Sherlock merely rolled his eyes, “How is it different than when we lived together before? We kept our money in our work account, you paid all the bills and did all the shopping, and I worked on cases. The biggest difference is that now we have to coordinate our lectures so we can spend more time together, but other than that, we’re simply pooling our resources like we used to.”

“Your resources could fill an Olympic sized swimming pool and mine might fill up half of a cooking pot,” retorted John.

“I don’t care what size your pot is, John. Money or no money, I love you and only you. I want to live here with you. Finances have never mattered to me, not ever, and the only reason I even pressed for my inheritance was to get Mycroft off my back. He fusses still, but he can’t control me monetarily any longer. For all our previous problems, arguing over finances was never an issue.”

Sherlock wasn’t wrong. John had helped earn their money through his work at the clinic and by helping Sherlock on cases, so he’d never felt awkward about spending their communal cash on their lives. “Okay, but just know that I feel a bit strange about it now.”

Sherlock kissed his cheek tenderly, “I know you do, my love, but you will grow accustomed to wealth soon enough.”

John was about to insist that he would certainly not become accustomed to it but was interrupted by a firm knock on the front door. Mrs Hudson called up before sending through a messenger who held an expensive-looking envelope. “Ah,” Sherlock looked discomfited for the first time, “It’s from Mummy.”

“Mummy? Your mum? Why is your mum sending you actual mail?” John felt nervous.

Sherlock carefully opened it; his face serious for only a moment before his face was painted with a distinct blush. He handed it to John who read, “My darling baby boy. You will present yourself along with your intended on Christmas morning at 8 am sharp. Love, Mummy.”

“Your intended?”

Sherlock’s blush grew darker, and his eyes seemed to have trouble finding John’s face, “Mummy presumes. She knew I was trying to relocate you after our meeting earlier this year.”

John was shocked to find that the presumption did not make him feel stress or nausea the way he expected it would. Instead, he felt like he’d been handed a new role in life, on that he was certain he had the skills for. The doctor knew he was in this relationship for the long haul, even if Sherlock ended up hating him and sent John on his lonely way. He would never be with anyone if he couldn’t be with Sherlock. This was it for him. “Well, you succeeded.”

“I _am_ the world’s foremost consulting detective,” Sherlock bragged playfully.

John felt an earnest grin spread across his face, “The only one in the world.”

“Indeed,” Sherlock seemed to relax, losing the tension he’d been carrying since the envelope had been delivered, “How shall I RSVP?”

John took a deep breath and let it out slowly, “It’s a directive from the higher-ups, can’t see how we can rightfully ignore the summons.” A tiny twinge grew in his belly but he suppressed any outward reaction.

Sherlock bit his lip to hold back a large grin, “Very true.”

Instead of filling out the fancy card meant for the purpose, Sherlock withdrew his mobile and in unusual fashion, called his mother, “Mummy!”

John smiled at Sherlock then left him alone for his call. He made it to the bathroom before the smile dropped from his face, and as quietly as he could manage, John heaved into the toilet. Mummy was _presuming_. Mummy was _demanding_ they both come for Christmas. John would need to interact with Sherlock’s family. _He’d be required to speak with them, eat with them...food. He’d have to weather their opinions of his past actions, and_...he threw up again, his retch of despair anything but quiet.

Sherlock noticed his nerves the moment he laid eyes on the doctor, despite the fact that John had brushed his teeth and washed his face. It was clear that the detective was taken aback but John did not expect the expression on Sherlock’s face to become concerned and even worried, “John...we don’t have to go. Mummy is just being dramatic and excitable.”

How could John deny Sherlock time with his own family, “No, ignore this. I’ll be fine. It was just a surprise.” A surprise that was going to make him sick again in a moment. He’d have to see Mycroft, he was certain, and probably other family members who would know how awful John had been before.

Sherlock looked pensive and unsure, “John...I do not wish to exacerbate your issues. It is clearly too soon for you to engage in social activities outside of work. I’ll just call Mummy back...”

John couldn’t let that happen, “No!” he exclaimed loudly, “No, Sherlock. I’ll be fine. I’m fine. It’s all fine.”

Sherlock looked at him with narrowed eyes, “No one says _fine_ that many times and comes across as convincing.” Sherlock let out a short sigh, “John, no one expects anything from you.” _Well, that hurt._ “I mean, no one will be judging you or exacting vengeance or whatever it is that you are concerned about. Most of my family have no idea that we were involved. In fact, I can assure you, my family has no clue that you and I even lived together. Some might be passingly aware that you had a blog and that you wrote about my cases, something they’d all find horrifically boring and mundane. Most of them likely think I’ve been passed out in a drug den somewhere for the last twenty years. Me showing up sober with a boyfriend will be all they’ll be able to talk about. Trust me, my love, it will be well.”

Somehow none of that made John feel better but he gave Sherlock a shaky smile and nodded. He would do this. He had to do this. Sherlock deserved every single degree of effort he could muster. John took in a deep breath, exhaled slowly and stood to his full height, “I’m fine.”

Sherlock smiled down at him, his face both fond and proud, “Yes, you are.”

Sherlock’s confidence in him was puzzling but like everything else about Sherlock, John was unable to resist. Each minute that passed took him further from the anxiety and stress he normally felt, and into a deep calm that he’d forgotten. He was not only a doctor, but he was a soldier. He had been known for his steady hand and his unwavering courage. Yes, he was a ridiculous fool who had made every mistake, but that was behind him now. Christmas with Sherlock’s family was a gift, one he would do anything necessary to be worthy of. John smiled up at Sherlock and it wasn’t a strain to do so, “I guess we’ll need to find a present for your mum.”

Now Sherlock was the one in distress and John laughed. This was a problem he could handle. John took another deep breath, then pulled out Sherlock’s state-of-the-art laptop and compelled the man to make a list of things his mother liked or enjoyed, then pared it down to items they might be able to procure on short notice. John then did a search of the immediate area to locate shops that might feasibly sell those items and organised a shopping trip.

They had to leave London at an unreasonable point of the morning in order to arrive at Mummy’s townhouse at the insisted upon time. They were met at the door by Mummy herself, resplendent in her festive clothing, and both men were immediately swept into a hard and lingering embrace, “Sherlock, my little angel, and John, I am so glad you are both here.”

“Mummy...” Sherlock began but he was cut off before he got further.

“Yes, yes, it’s all new and fragile right now, and from the looks of things, Dr Watson has some psychological issues to pair with his psychosomatic presentations. Fascinating. He’s marvellously broken, my dear one, I see why you adore him so. Permission granted. You may wed whenever you can soonest organize a day, in fact,” without pause, Mummy Holmes twisted around and called into the house, “Mycie, Billy needs a marriage licence, call one of your people will you?”

Simultaneous protests of “It’s _Sherlock!”_ and “It’s _Mycroft,”_ echoed through the air but Mummy ignored both her first sons in favour of inspecting her new one. “John Watson, I know you will be a true and faithful husband to my little Billy. Mind, if you’re not, I will let their other sibling know and you will understand _regret.”_

John didn’t want to remember Eurus but he did and without meaning to, he shuddered. “Yes, Mrs Holmes.”

She waved away his words, “None of that, our John, call me Mummy, or Violet, if you prefer.”

“Violet,” stammered John.

“Such good boys, so spirited,” Mummy pinched both their cheeks and then ushered them into the house, “I decided on Christmas Breakfast instead of dinner. I absolutely despise your father’s side of the family, and if they want to be parasites here, then they will do it on my schedule!”

John couldn’t help but smile. Mummy was presumptuous but he couldn’t find it in himself to object. Mycroft was on his mobile having a soft conversation with someone, but Sherlock was hugging his mother. A moment later, an older gentler version of Sherlock showed up, “Papa!”

“Billy, I mean, Sherlock!” The old gent wrapped his long arms around his son and gave him an exuberant squeeze, “My how you’ve grown, my boy! You look a right proper adult now.”

“Papa, I’m forty-two,” sighed Sherlock.

“Just a baby,” said his father wistfully, “Still practically a child.”

“He’s getting married, my pet,” Violet stated with satisfaction, “Mycie is arranging the legal part right now.”

“Married! Wonderful! Sherlock has been so lost without you, our John, this is the best Christmas news ever. Hullo, our John, I’m Sieger.”

“I want to be married on the Prime Meridian,” Sherlock said quickly, “Exactly on it and right at midnight, New Year’s Eve.”

“Of course, Billy. Mycroft, you heard him, make sure it happens.” Mycroft was the one rolling his eyes now, but he didn’t argue, merely making the request to whomever he was speaking with as if it had been his plan the entire time. John felt a bit dizzy since he hadn’t been engaged five minutes ago and now his wedding was practically upon them. It was Christmas Day, he would be marrying Sherlock in just under a week. He needed to sit down.

“Vi, you’ve put him in a spin and we haven’t even had breakfast yet. Get the poor lad some coffee at least. The Dreadfuls are waiting at the table, can’t put it off any longer.” Sieger didn’t seem to be overly fond of his relations, “I cannot wait to see their faces once they learn that Sherlock is off the market for one of their inbred children. No Holmes fortune for them.”

“Shush, Siggy, that’s your family you’re talking about.”

“So I know the truth better than some, that’s one of the reasons I married you, Vi, for ne’er have our bloodlines ever come in contact.” He laughed heartily and Vi just shook her head, amused at her husband’s old jokes, “I am kidding with you, our John. The cousins aren’t inbred, not much, anyway. Still, new blood, what what.” He nudged John in the ribs.

John was led into a cramped but homey space inside the family home. It was packed full of people who were physical variations of Mycroft and Sherlock. One cousin could have been Sherlock’s twin, if not for the height or hair. Martin was short and coppery, but also barely paying attention. His focus was on the large smiling man at his side, a gentle giant who seemed to hover protectively over the small Holmes. John wondered what their story was. He’d learn in time, he supposed.

The rest of Christmas passed in a pleasantly chaotic manner. The Holmes cousins only lingered long enough to confirm that none of their names had been newly added Sieger’s will before departing. John had been toasted many times, the cousins barely bothering to conceal their amazement that their prickly younger relative had managed to find someone who could tolerate his extremes enough to actually bind themselves to him. John remained silent on the matter, but inwards, he vowed more than ever to be the best husband Sherlock could ever dream of having.

The next few days were a whirlwind of preparation. Mummy came up with most of the ideas but Sieger was the one who organized nearly everything. He seemed to be chums with half of Britain, so between himself and his eldest son, they put together the wedding that Sherlock asked for. John participated mostly by saying yes whenever asked a question and was escorted to a private tailor to have a suit fitted to him for the occasion.

It was during the last fitting that Sherlock approached him. John was standing in the dressing room, putting his old clothes on when the detective wrapped his arms around him, “John Watson, would you do me the inestimable honour of marrying me?” Sherlock’s clenched hand unfurled, revealing a heavy silver signet ring. It was carved with an elaborately designed letter J.

John smiled and felt his eyes well up. Now it felt real, like everything had been a nebulous dream until that moment, “Yes.”

Sherlock slipped the ring on his finger, “You’ve made me a very happy man.”

“I’m happy, too.” John realized he wasn’t lying. The last few weeks had brought him such change. He’d gone from being completely miserable to being on the path to utter happiness. He had been given a second chance! His endless upset had faded each day until he barely felt the discomfort any longer. He’d put on a couple of pounds as well, something the tailor had been advised about. John’s new suit was cut in a way that would continue to flatter him as he slowly regained his previous physique.

Minutes flittered away at speed after that. It seemed as if mere moments had passed but John wasn’t in London. He was in Greenwich Village, in the Park, standing on one half of the heavy line that divided the world. He had eyes for only one person. Sherlock strode through the small crowd of friends and family that were attending, his gaze locked on John. Standing on the other side of the line, Sherlock took John’s hand and together they faced the serious-looking man in front of them. Words were spoken but all of John’s attention was on the man beside him. Sherlock looked solemn as he kissed the ring that shone on John’s finger, “John, this is our new beginning. We are starting a new life, in a new year, at a place where everything begins. We’ve come full circle, and I look forward to all the rest of our new beginnings.”

John almost couldn’t speak for sentiment, but he had thought deeply about what he wanted to say today so he took the deep breath he required and got the words out, “Sherlock, I cannot ever express how much your return has meant to me, I will never deserve you, but I will spend the rest of my days loving you, supporting you, and being a part of your life in whatever way you will allow me. You have my devotion, forever.”

Both men were smiling at one another, their faces filled with love, commitment, and trust. They weren’t letting their history prevent them from having a future. Both men were dedicated to the task of bettering themselves in order to be a better partner to the person they had cleaved to, mind, heart, and soul.

**Author's Note:**

> I have plans for an E rated following chapter, maybe in time for Sherlock's birthday but life takes me by surprise quite frequently so we'll see. Love to all.
> 
> \- d


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